


Welcome To The Shove

by Dyce



Series: GNU: After the End [2]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, The Shove
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:02:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29896014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dyce/pseuds/Dyce
Summary: Mr Nutt finally returns to Ankh-Morpork, but with Vetinari gone, will orcs be welcome in the city?
Relationships: Nutt/Glenda Sugarbean
Series: GNU: After the End [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2198112
Comments: 5
Kudos: 42





	Welcome To The Shove

Mr Nutt had travelled far and learned much since the last time he faced the Patrician. Even so it had come as a shock to learn, when he returned to Ankh-Morpork, that Vetinari had died. That had been… upsetting. Ladyship had been sad about it, he’d seen that when she told him. He and the clan of orcs he had gathered had considered just heading back into the high mountains, but Ladyship had convinced them to at least try. She had met the new Patrician, she said, and he was willing to welcome the orcs. 

Nutt had been dubious. He had learned distrust of humans all over again, in Uberwald. But the train had greatly shortened the journey, the pathfinding group would only be away from the clan for a week, and Ladyship had coaxed until they agreed. However, he had told the others to wait in the shed arranged by the train people, and gone to find a friend. If anyone would know what the word was about Lord von Lipwig, it was Trev.

“You should go talk to him,” Trev said, pushing another pint over to Nutt in a friendly way. “You weren’t really in the city long enough to get to know him, but Mister Lipwig is a good sort. Everyone likes him.” 

“Everyone, or every human?” Nutt asked, sipping the beer. 

“Everyone,” Trev said, with surprising firmness. “Mr Lipwig’s a good sort, Nutt, like I said. When the golems started buying themselves free, he gave them more work than anyone, in the post-office days. Paid them well, too. And he and his wife run the clacks… wel, it’s mostly her, especially now, but they’ve been giving goblins – real goblins, not like you – jobs since they first came to the city. Good jobs, with meals and good pay and all.” He took a gulp of his own beer. “And when he took over the bank, he made them start letting poor people in, and he showed how the Lavishes had stolen from the bank and all. You go and talk to him, mate. Mr Lipwig always gives people a fair shake, no matter what shape they are.” 

Nutt had remained sceptical – Trev certainly wasn’t speaking from personal experience of the man, merely of the prevailing ‘knowledge’, which was usually at least four parts gossip to six parts truth. Still, it was enough for him to ask for a meeting. Mr Drumknott was still there, and remembered Nutt, and had promised to arrange it. 

To Nutt’s surprise, the meeting took place out in the gardens, on a broad stretch of lawn, and all the orcs had been invited. It felt a little exposed, but there were no archers hidden in the trees, or guards anywhere. This might be the new Patrician’s effort at making them comfortable, he thought. 

“Don’t like this,” one of the others muttered. “Too exposed.” 

“Free to leave,” he countered. “No walls. No traps. Open air.” 

The others muttered, but there were nods. They did prefer that. 

Drumknott had led them to the place. Now another small group was approaching from another path, and Nutt examined them. A golem, and a goblin, which was interesting. Two humans, one with a strange trotting walk, the other wearing a flat cap and smelling of grease. And out in front, a man who must – by elimination – be the Patrician.

He didn’t wear black, as Vetinari had. He was wearing a handsome but subdued suit in soft grey, and though he wore a skull-cap as Vetinari had, this one was a matching grey with faint silver embroidery occasionally glinting in the sunlight. He was shorter than Vetinari had been, a little above middle height, slender rather than thin, and with a pleasant, ordinary face. Nothing outstanding or memorable about it, from the short-cropped light brown hair to the ordinary chin… except the eyes. The eyes were watchful, and alert, and blazing bright with intelligence. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr Nutt,” the Patrician said, in a voice so pleasantly friendly that it had to be deliberate. But he also held out his hand, and there weren’t many humans willing to shake the hand of an orc, especially when most of them were showing claws. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.” 

“I am afraid that I have heard little about you, your Lordship.” Nutt shook the hand politely, and felt no flinch or hesitation. “But the friends I still have in this city speak very highly of you.”

“I am glad to hear it.” The Patrician looked at the other orcs standing behind him. “Drumknott has filled me in, insofar as Lord Vetinari confided in him. You were, I believe, raised and taught by Lady Margolotta, then came to Ankh-Morpork under the mistaken impression that you were a goblin. After some… interesting events, you and your young lady decided to travel back to Uberwald to aid the few other surviving orcs. I don’t see her, by the way.” 

Nutt nodded slowly. “Glenda remained with the rest of the clan. She and Ladyship are taking care of them until I come back.” Glenda was enjoying having access to a really big kitchen again, and was teaching some of the younger orcs the art of pies. It was amazing what Glenda could cook even over a scrap of campfire, but as she’d often complained, you needed a proper oven to make a pie.

“Ah, yes, I see.” He sounded as if he really did. “Mr Nutt, Drumknott will provide you with a copy of the various documents signed by both Lord Vetinari and myself, enshrining in law the right of orcs, goblins, golems, gnomes, and several other species to be considered people and citizens, protected by and subject to the laws of this city. There is even a clause written into the latest covering the rights of previously undiscovered races, establishing that any species or individual that can demonstrate its sapience shall have the same rights as any other. However, I think that it will take more than a piece of paper – or a big handful of pieces of paper – to convince you and your people.” 

“Yes.” It went a long way with Nutt himself – he knew how important a signed piece of paper could be here – but the others wouldn’t trust it. They didn’t trust words from a human in any form. “We would like to come to Ankh-Morpork. To settle here, and rebuild our race in a new form. Uberwald is not safe for us, even with Ladyship’s protection. But Ankh-Morpork may not be any safer, and so we will need more than paper, your Lordship.” 

The Patrician nodded. “That,” he said calmly, “is why I have brought my character witnesses. Forward, Mr Pump. Please tell Mr Nutt about your time as my parole officer. 

The golem stepped forward. “When he was twenty-six years of age,” it rumbled, “Mr Moist von Lipwig was hanged for an extremely long list of crimes, under the name of Albert Spangler. He survived his hanging, and Lord Vetinari offered him a chance at redemption in the form of employment at the Post Office. Several former Postmasters, including Lord Vetinari’s highly trained special clerks, had died trying to revitalize the Post Office, so I believe he considered the risk worth taking.” It glanced down at the current Patrician, and if a golem could look affectionate, this one did. “Mr von Lipwig not only succeeded, but excelled. He revitalized the Post Office, using his own stolen money to do so when it became necessary, and exposed a conspiracy of fraud and theft that had centered on the Grand Trunk. He cared for his employees with kindness and understanding, and made life in the city more pleasant for many.” 

“You look startled, Mr Nutt,” the Patrician said, sounding amused. “Believe me, my criminal past is old news in this city, it came out a long time ago. But I thought you might not have heard.” 

Mr Pump nodded ponderously. “The Post Office employs many golems,” it continued calmly. “They are paid well, as indeed are all the post-office employees, and treated with respect and consideration. Mr von Lipwig considers us to be people… as does his wife, Ms Dearheart, who managed the Golem Trust for many years. They are kind to those who are disregarded by others.” 

The golem stepped back, and the goblin stepped forward, looking up at Nutt with clever, gleaming eyes. It wasn’t young – Nutt knew the signs – but still spry. “I am Of The Twilight The Darkness,” he said. “Have known Mr Slightly Damp Lipwig for many years. After Sir Samuel and Lady Sybil make everyone admit goblins is people, yes, we were protected under the law. But that is not enough, when humans still say ‘goblins stink, goblins is thieves, go away goblins’. But Mr Slightly Damp and Ms Dearheart, they say ‘goblins likes the clacks? Goblins work for us, yes’. They pay goblins as much as humans, give us places to live, even in their own house. Me and my family live in his attic, very cosy. Ms Dearheart make sure goblins eat meals, stop working to rest, tells us ‘do not work all hours, no, get some sleep, spend time with family’. Nobody ever say that to goblins before, you bet. When Mr Slightly Damp start to work on railway, he go to Quirm, find goblins there too, find out what life like for them.” The goblin’s face tightened and he bared his teeth. “Bad, bad, very bad. We hunted, yes, enslaved, yes, these things happen everywhere. But in Quirm, the bandits eat the goblins, cook them up and gnaw on bones. Especially little goblins.” 

All the orcs growled as one. If there was any species with which they felt a kinship, it was the goblins, and this was horrifying. “I wish I had been there,” Nutt said grimly. “They would not have had long to regret their actions.”

“They did not,” Of The Twilight The Darkness said with satisfaction. “Mr Slightly Damp, he as angry as you, oh yes. Tell all goblins ‘come with me, I take you to safe place’. And when he get to railway camping place, and find engineers dead like goblins, he go mad with rage. Mr Moist, who hate violence, who never hurt anyone except as last resort, he kill three dwarf delvers with own hands. Delvers who burn clacks towers with goblins in them, who kill engineers just building rails for train, them he fight as he never fight anyone before.” 

“That,” the Patrician said, looking a little embarrassed, “was because of that potion you made me drink.” 

“Potion not put anything in you that not already there,” the goblin said firmly. “Only let it out. And then you bring all goblins from that place home, give them place to live, good meals, teach them to work on clacks or on trains. Listen here, you orcs. Mr Moist von Lipwig look at goblins, he see people. Cry for dead goblins. Fight for hurt goblins. Drink goblin medicines, even.” 

“They work extremely well,” the Patrician said wryly. “Too well, sometimes.” 

Of The Twilight The Darkness nodded, his big ears flapping. “Mr Moist von Lipwig look at goblins, he see people. Look at golems, see people. Tiny little gnomes in forest, or big trolls in city, or fighting dwarves in Uberwald, always he see people. Always. When he look at orc, he no see monsters, only new kind of people. This I say, and it is a certain thing. It why he is Patrician, now. Many not-humans in the city now. Wrong ruler would be big trouble for them. But everyone trust Mr Moist von Lipwig, who understand that everyone is people.” 

The human in the flat cap stepped forward. “I’m Dick Simnel, part-owner of the Hygienic Railway,” he said, and he, too, offered his hand to shake. “I was there, for some of what Mr Lipwig did. I saw the poor half-starved goblins he brought back from Quirm, and I saw the group of very… businesslike chaps who he took back to deal with those bandits who ate goblins. They suffered for what they did, and then they was handed over to the law and hanged to a man, or so we heard later, and glad we were to know it. I’m also here to say that if any of your chaps want a job on the railway, we’ve never paid any attention to species when it comes to hiring, except sometimes in the case of trolls and golems who mostly can’t work on the footplate on account of being too big to fit. But other than suchlike limitations of size or weight, anyone who can do the job is welcomed by us, and that will include orcs. And not just in security, either, though I’ll not deny that anyone who can rip a bandit’s arm off and beat him to death with it would be welcome on some of the more dangerous runs.” 

They’d enjoyed the train-ride, and the few humans who had visited their special closed carriage to bring food or news had been friendly enough. The mutter this time was a pleased one, and Nutt knew the offer would probably be accepted… if it was safe. “That is a kind offer, Mr Simnel,” he said carefully. 

“One of you will probably be invited to join the Watch. That’s traditional, and a good idea.” The Patrician smiled slightly. “A species accepted by the Watch is accepted by the city, as a rule, and so far that has included gnomes, werewolves, golems, and a Nac Mac Feegle… although I understand he’s been asked not to bring his relatives to visit unless he really must.” 

Mr Nutt nodded. “I was considering that myself,” he admitted. “I remember from the last time I came that it was… expected.” 

“I understand that the orcs can be very intelligent, and very precise.” This was the last human, the one who hadn’t spoken before. He wore a suit and, for some reason, a red nose. “Should they desire training in accounting, the Bank of Ankh-Morpork has also embraced a species-blind hiring policy since Mr Von Lipwig became Master of the Mint. Aptitude is what matters, as he says, not birth.” He offered his hand as well, and Mr Nutt hadn’t shaken hands with so many humans since he’d left Ankh-Morpork. “And in my position as character witness, I will tell you that I was born a clown, from an ancient family of Fools, and most humans look down on us almost as much as they do on what used to be called the ‘lesser races’. I hid what I was for a long time, denied it with every fibre of my being, just as you, Mr Nutt, denied that you were an orc. Mr Lipwig, however, chose to accept me as both the clown I had been born and the bank manager I chose to become. When my past was revealed, so was his, and we both know from experience that how you begin is not how you must continue, and what you are born matters less than what you choose to be. If the orcs choose to be more than what wicked men forced them to be, then the Patrician and I will support them to the best of our ability.”

Mr Nutt nodded slowly. “Your Lordship,” he said, turning back to the Patrician, “I did not know what to expect of you, but you have exceeded even my wildest hopes. I don’t think I have ever encountered another human who understood, as you seem to, that orcs have as much reason to distrust your species as yours does to distrust mine, or that character witnesses who were not human would carry more weight with us than those who are. You don’t expect me to take your word, but provide me with both documentation and personal testimonials. That is unprecedented.” 

The Patrician smiled, a warm, friendly, sincere smile that no doubt had served him well in his dubious past. “Mr Nutt, I am delighted to meet you as well. Since my criminal days twenty years ago, there is no single phrase I have uttered more often than the words ‘trust me’. And people do! Even when my past as a con-man was revealed to the world, I found myself trusted by almost everyone. It is a constant grief to me how many people just believe what they’re told instead of exercising a little basic caution. At last, Mr Nutt, I’ve met someone who *didn’t* immediately trust me, and I’m extremely pleased.” 

That made Nutt chuckle, and the Patrician laughed too. “I suspect that you disarm them with honesty, Your Lordship,” Nutt said, smiling and not trying to hide his teeth. A man who let goblins live in his house wasn’t frightened by teeth. “As you have done with us. A man who knows how to tell the truth in the right way is far more skilled than one who merely lies.” 

“Oh, yes. Always.” The Patrician nodded. “Mr Nutt, I cannot guarantee your safety here. Nobody can, anywhere. But I can promise you that you will be given a fair chance, insofar as anything is fair in this uncertain world. There will be employers willing to hire orcs, and homes available for rent or purchase by you. You will not be persecuted by the law unless you commit a crime, and if you are persecuted by other citizens, the law will protect you. You will have the same chance to succeed or fail as any other newcomers to Ankh-Morepork… and as a former Uberwald boy myself, I can assure you that things are better here for those of us who have… chosen to break with tradition.” 

Nutt nodded. “That,” he said slowly, “is all we ask, and more than anyone else has ever given us.” 

Those bright eyes met his, and Nutt saw a kind of understanding there. They stood, measuring each other, for a long moment. Nutt saw a man who knew who and what he was, but had taken his own nature and bent it to serve his will, who knew that what you were born mattered less than what you chose to be. What the Patrician saw Nutt didn’t know, but the man smiled again and laid a hand lightly on Nutt’s shoulder for a moment. “Mr Nutt,” he said gently, “I welcome you to the city, and hope that you will choose to stay. And if you and your chums decide to violate my trust and go on a rampage, I have a golem army buried a few miles outside of town that could turn quite a large hoard into a thin paste without notable effort. I am sure I won’t need to dig them up… but I just mention it.” 

Nutt blinked. “A golem army? I thought you freed the golems.” 

Mr Pump’s rumbling voice sounded a little put upon. “Some golems do not desire freedom. The Umnian golems do not even understand the concept. Mr Lipwig has convinced them to stand guard in their pit until an emergency arises, which seems to be all they want.” 

The Patrician shrugged. “I bring them out now and then for a big fire or natural disaster. They seem to be happy to have a city to guard, insofar as anything makes them happy. Everyone should have a purpose, Mr Nutt.” The friendly welcome was still there, and the not-at-all-veiled threat hadn’t diminished it. ‘I am not afraid of you, because the other outcasts who I have treated with kindness and respect will protect me from you if you choose to turn on me’… that was a thing worth saying. The Patrician truly had no fear of them, and where there was no fear, there was hope. 

“Yes. Everyone should have a purpose. And this seems like a good place to look for ours.” He turned to the others. “We will bring the rest of the clan here. It is not perfect… but it will do.” 

The Patrician smiled benignly on them. “Good. Do tell me when they’re expected. I will arrange a little welcome. And for now, I believe the goblins have prepared lodgings for you in one of their own buildings.” 

“On lowest floor. Still man-size. You fit okay.” Of The Twilight The Darkness trotted over to them and patted Nutt’s knee encouragingly. “Come! Good dinner all ready for you, and dark rooms for sleeping. No smell of humans, no fear of mobs.” 

That would help. “Thank you,” Nutt said gravely. “And thank you, your Lordship.” As he left, he looked over his shoulder again at the slender man in his sober grey, who looked almost as bland and forgettable as Drumknott, except for those brilliant eyes. A strange successor for the imposing Lord Vetinari.

When he was preparing for bed, he found a note in his shirt pocket that hadn’t been there this morning. “The clacks is always hiring, too, especially if you’re half as good with machinery as goblins are. If you’re interested, tell Of The Twilight The Darkness and he’ll have my wife stop by to chat. Best to meet outside, she gets testy when she can’t smoke. Welcome to Ankh-Morpork, Mr Nutt.” It was signed with a scribble that might have been ‘M. Lipwig’. Only the finest of pickpockets could have put the note there without Mr Nutt noticing it, especially during that single brief contact. A variety of crimes, indeed… and now he was Patrician. 

Well, if a pickpocket and conman from Uberwald could rise to rule the city, maybe there was a place in it for orcs, too. What matters is not what you are born, but the choices you make. And he remembered the Shove, the warmth and belonging that it could offer. The city, or at least some of the most powerful people in it, had offered him and his people a place in its Shove if they chose to take it.

He sat down and began to write out a clacks message in code, telling Glenda and the clan to join them in their new home.


End file.
